


Worship at your Altar

by eon_s



Series: DA:I Fics that loosely relate to each other [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Fingering, Begging, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Bottom Cullen Rutherford, Cock Worship, Crying, Debauchery, Declarations Of Love, Deepthroating, Desk Sex, Dirty Talk, Edgeplay, Enthusiastic Consent, Erections, Facials, Fluff, Humiliation, Kissing, Love, M/M, Messy, Object Insertion, Praise Kink, Rimming, Secret Relationship, Service Kink, Service Top, Sex Magic, Shameless Smut, Some Plot, Spanking, Spoilers, Teasing, Top Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Trust, Workplace Sex, because knight enchanter!lavellan, but only light teasing humiliation, fucking cullen with the hilt of the spirit blade, i'm probably missing some things but those are the main ones, let's play 'hide the boner', oh forgot one, okay here goes all the tags, seriously spoilers don't read if you've not gotten to the last bit of the game, technically they're both versatile i guess but not typically, virtually no plot beyond that really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 03:06:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18379676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eon_s/pseuds/eon_s
Summary: This time we really earn that E rating. AKA the 'I have 1000 other things to do so lets right 5k of pure smut' story.Rumors are circulating that the Inquisitor and the Commander are up to something. And by something, literally everyone means sex. Read the tags and see if they're things that you're into. They'll explain it better than this summary will.loose sequel to my previous da:i fic





	Worship at your Altar

**Author's Note:**

> I have been very sad and very busy so I spent my little amount of time writing 5000+ words of Cullen Rutherford taking a sword hilt up the ass because reasons. (Upon looking up a reference pic... yeah, just assume the spirit blade hilt looks less... sharp edged. Also I could not for the life of me figure out if when we summon a spirit blade it comes out of that hilt or makes an entirely new blade and that hilt is purely ceremonial. But fuck it. It's real in this fic, and it's going up Cullen's ass.)
> 
> Also: for those who don't speak French I mean Orlesian, agneau means lamb.
> 
> As usual I'm posting at 1 AM with no sleep and no energy to look for typos. I'll reread this in the next few days and deal with them then. Sorry if I miss any.

* * *

What does His Worship think about when he broods on the battlements, dressed in black? Why does he rush to and fro, up the stairs, always hastening to be somewhere that isn’t in plain view? Why, O why, does he now tear the drapery down and put it up again, blue this time, speaking of redemption in cryptic rants? What goes on in that mad ginger head – and what’s it to do with the Commander?

Skyhold in the doldrums, a lull between ecstatic peaks of battles: the rumour mill has begun to grist once more. There are better uses for everyone’s speculation – what will be done with the wounded? Can Corypheus be stopped? Is there enough food to last through the cold months? These questions are too painful, too frightening, for common folk to amuse themselves with. Instead, these are worried over in the wee hours of the morning, in private, each man, woman, and child, weighed down by a common malaise. In public, they pretend that all is well. They bemoan the small things, tell the coarse jokes of the peasantry, and speculate as to why their leader acts the way he does.

Early on, the answer was simple. ‘He’s a knife-ear – they’re all half-mad to start with.’ Unkind perhaps, but the prejudice came easy when the times were hard and they did not know what to make of him. He has led them from danger often enough to make the people change the nature of their gossip, and so, it is simple now, too, but in a different way.

“No – no way. The Commander’d never take it up the bum. If anyone were to be sodded on all fours it’d be His Worship. You’ve seen him in his red suit, yeah? Dainty as a lass, he is.”

“I am only repeating what I was told, _messeur._ Sometimes the lion plays l’agneau, oui?”

Darmud paused mid-step. Only for a moment, then he kept on course; to an outside observer you’d not notice him falter. Still, thoughts raced through his mind, spinning like tops careening into one another at great speed.

How had word gotten out about that particular chapter of his personal life? Servants with loose tongues, he’d guess, or perhaps some good-natured ribbing at the hands of the recruits gone too far. Whatever the source, it had to be stopped. It would not do to have the authority of the Inquisition undermined by mischaracterizations of the Commander.

Well. Not mischaracterizations, per say. Still, if Cullen knew it was being spoken of, even in jest, he’d shrivel up and die of shame.

 _And likely never let me at his arse again,_ Darmud frowned. It would be a great loss, that. It was just an average arse, really, small and pale, but it was muscular and pinchable and, best of all, it was wonderfully sensitive. The knowledge that the Commander of the Inquisition could be reduced to a shuddering, gasping mess with a quick tickle or a series of staccato slaps made Darmud happier than any quantity of military or political intelligence. He would hate to lose something so newly discovered and so utterly satisfactory.

He turned on his heel, looking across the courtyard. He had some time – time enough to visit Cullen, as was his original plan, and steal a kiss. All this thinking had gotten him hoping he could steal more than that, and it was all he could do to thank the Maker that his clothes were tailored with generous folds of velvet offering much needed modesty to the contents of his trousers.

His polished boots made no sound as he ascended the stairs, knocking once before throwing open the door with more disregard for decorum than he could ever recall showing. Cullen, in the middle of speaking to a few of his recruits, paused mid-phrase.

“Inquisitor? May I be of service?”

 _You may indeed,_ Darmud thought, and diplomatically gifted or not, some of it must have showed on his face, as an unmistakeable flush rose up from Cullen’s collar.

“I have an urgent matter awaiting your attention, Commander.”

He swallowed, flustered, and nodded, running a hand through his blond curls.

“Right. Well, you heard – off with you, then. I’ll see to it you get the rest of your missives later.”

“Ser.”

The recruits nodded, arms crossed over their chests in salute, and hurried out. Darmud was sure he heard one of them mutter ‘bad as mabari in season’ but he hoped it was just his ears playing tricks. Cullen stepped past him to shut and lock the door, and it was all Darmud could do to keep from taking handfuls of that firm little rump immediately.

“What was it you wanted?” Cullen asked, and there was an incredulousness to his voice that Darmud wanted to kiss into submission. He did as he pleased, surging forward. Cullen was unprepared but responded eagerly enough, sinking back against the door in surprise as Darmud crowded him. The Inquisitor did not retreat until his lungs were burning and Cullen was making needy noises of his own, desperate for air. When they parted, he took in the debauched spectacle. Cullen’s lips were shining and swollen, his face flushed, and his eyes were dark, the pupils wide with want.

“What was that for?” he managed, breathless.

“You are the finest, most desirable creature I have ever laid eyes on. It occurred to me that I had a hundred things that needed doing, but all I wanted was to be here, making love to you. It also occurred to me that, for good or ill, I’m running things around here, so if I want to leave my many responsibilities on my desk, I have every right to come here and bend you over yours.”

Cullen’s lips parted at that and he made a soft sound before he could stop himself.

“Would you like that? I can spare the time if you can.”

“P-people will talk,” he mumbled. “It’s the middle of the afternoon –”

“They’re talking regardless. I refuse to let it put me off you. Besides, I have something I’ve been meaning to try.”

When Cullen faltered, Darmud’s demeanour softened and he took the ex-Templar’s hand.

“You can say no, of course, and you needn’t explain why. Your comfort is of paramount importance to me. Do you feel well enough today to –?”

“Yes!” he said hastily, then blushed redder still. “I’m sorry – I don’t mean to be overeager. To tell you the truth, the lyrium has been on my mind all day and having something to feel other than a pain in my head would be a blessing.”

“Then say no more – I’ll see to it you are well cared for. Clear your desk and disrobe, if you would. I can help with your armour, but I’d like you to strip your clothes off yourself.”

Cullen nodded, taking to orders like a duck to water. He really was a marvel.

The armour took some time to remove, and Darmud feared the lack of progress would cool Cullen’s ardour, already dampened by the pain of withdrawal. As such, he set about talking candidly and with enough verbal filth inserted as to scandalize the other man.

“… and that is why I would sooner lose my eyesight and both my hands before I lose the privilege of being allowed to reduce you to a needy, wanton little minx.”

“Really!” Cullen sputtered, now bare from the waist up and struggling with the laces on his breeches. “You talk like a randy old farmer more so than a politician.”

“You forget, I am of wild stock. I could be far more primitive about my interest, if I so desired. Live up to some of the bawdier stories of roving Dalish warriors tempting good Fereldan girls away from hearth, home, and honour. There now – and your smalls. Beautiful. My favourite landmark in all the world.”

He made no secret of ogling Cullen’s rising prick but made no move to touch it. Instead, he instructed him to turn and bend at the waist, resting his weight on his desk and spreading his legs.

“Show me your little pink entrance, love. I’d so like to fuck it with my tongue.”

“Darmud!” Cullen protested. “That’s – I’ve been at work all day – I haven’t washed.”

“One of the benefits to courting a mage is that we have ways of smoothing over these kinds of inconveniences,” the elf countered. “Now – hold those buttocks wide apart – there’s a good man.”

In a kinder, gentler tone, he added: “Have I your permission to use a bit of my magic, love?”

He always asked – Cullen’s past demanded that courtesy. As always, Cullen hesitated, then tried to pretend that he hadn’t – to spare his feelings, most likely. Darmud pretended not to notice, for the Commander’s sake, but if his eyes lost some of their steel and his touch softened, well, it couldn’t be helped. He whispered the spell – quick and painless, making him clean and cool. Cullen shuddered, then whimpered when a tongue licked gently over the tight ring of muscle.

“Gorgeous,” Darmud murmured fondly. “What a sight you are! Would that I could, I’d never have you wear a stitch of clothing and stare at you all the time.”

“You wouldn’t tire of me?” Cullen laughed shyly. Darmud kissed him, sloppy, hot, deep – teeth nipping, tongue fucking into his tight hole, breeching him. A proper _filthy_ kiss, and to a part of Cullen that Chantry morality had never taught him should be kissed. There was real joy in exposing the man to some of the naughtier pleasures of the flesh as he was a keen pupil, despite his humiliation, or perhaps because of it.

“Oil?”

Cullen propped himself up on his elbows, fumbling around in his desk drawers and retrieving a phial.

“Tsk, tsk… who’s been using this, then? It was nearly full when I last stopped by. You haven’t been too hospitable to our many guests, have you?” the elf teased.

“No! I just – I sometimes – you’ve been so busy lately – we both have – and I – sometimes it gets lonely, so…”

“Oh, you treasure, what do you do? Use it on your palm to slick your poker while you have a pull?”

“No,” Cullen admitted, red to the tips of his ears and halfway down his strong, broad chest. “Not quite.”

It took a minute for the meaning to dawn on Darmud who damn near went cross-eyed from the wave of arousal that hit him when he understood.

“You play with yourself back here? Put your fingers in?”

Cullen shook his head.

“Not – not my fingers,” he confessed.

“Well? What, then? You can’t just leave me to speculate.”

Darmud slid one of his own thin fingers to emphasize his point.

“Maker’s breath – _ah –_ a m-marrow.”

Oh, gods. That was a lovely thought. The Commander of the Inquisition’s armed forces buggering himself silly with a summer squash, and –

“Think of me, did you?”

“You know I did.”

“I do. I just like hearing it. I’m not the handsomest elf in the world – don’t argue – and it’s nice to get the recognition I deserve. Besides, what I lack in ethereal beauty, I make up for in the endowment department, so really, we all win, don’t we? Tell me, pet, was the marrow bigger than I am?”

Cullen bowed his head.

“A little. I just wanted to see if I could… take it.”

“I have something you could take.”

The idea had been germinating in Darmud’s mind for some time, but seeing Cullen spreading his cheeks, ready for a fucking, had it coming to the forefront of his thoughts with urgency. He reached for the sheath at his side and palmed the polished hilt of the item in question. Cullen noticed the motion and looked, purpling with mortification at the sight.

“You can’t – your spirit blade – that’s – that’s indecent!”

“It’s mine, I forged it, and, as a Knight-Enchanter, I can decide what I do with it. Why shouldn’t I give it a greater purpose than just killing darkspawn?”

“A Knight-Enchanter’s spirit blade in my – we can’t! You mustn’t!”

“But do you _want_ to? We’ve got nearly all the known world at our feet – the Qunari themselves asking for an alliance – and you think me rogering you with a bit of lazurite is going to be our undoing?”

Darmud couldn’t help but shiver a bit at the statement of his own power. A Dalish mage holding the world in the palm of his hand… and the rose of Honnleath, too, at his mercy.

“I would never be able to see that hilt again without dying of embarrassment.”

“Oh, go on, it’d do me good to see you fluster so easily and on such a regular basis. You know I love watching you squirm.”

“I don’t know…”

Darmud nodded.

“We don’t have to. I’m only teasing, love. I don’t mean anything by it.”

“I know. It’s not that. It’s… it looks like it’d be cold.”

How Cullen could look prim while saying that was a testament to his charm, Darmud thought, and laughed. Bless the Chantry for turning out such handsome, wholesome men.

“I could warm it, if you like. Bit of magic.”

Cullen buried his face in his arms.

“Alright – only don’t make me look at you. It’ll be too much.”

“I’ll never _make_ you do anything. You want to stop, you say so. You have my word that I’ll respect it, and never think ill of you for it.”

“Just… just put it in.”

“Well, far be it from me to deny you!”

Magic certainly had its uses. Darmud weighed the hilt of his spirit blade in his hand, not summoning a blade for obvious reasons of safety – plus there was no need for it, not with the job he had in mind. He let a small flame leap from his palm and teased it back and forth over the lazurite, raising its temperature until it was warm. Then he unstopped the phial of oil and drizzled it slowly over the fat head of the pommel.

“Do you think you can take it as you are, or would you like more of my fingers?”

“I can take it. It hasn’t been long since the marrow,” Cullen mumbled into his elbow. Darmud swatted one pert buttock, making him jump.

“Naughty, naughty. Suppose some one had seen you at it? Here – here it comes, love. Stop me if you need to.”

With a quick kiss to the spot still red from the slap, the elf pressed gently, decisively in. Cullen made a strangled sound, gripping the edge of his desk so hard his knuckles bleached. The muscles in his back and rear clenched and unclenched and an artery stood out in his neck. He tossed his proud head back like a stallion, arching his back as the pommel fucked him open, legs shuddering, sides heaving.

“Gods, the sight of you – a real Fereldan thoroughbred if ever there was one – taking your pleasure on the hilt of my blade… it’s enough to ruin me for anyone else. The stones on you… you could sire a whole host of gold-haired children with the potent stuff you’ve got in here.”

He gave Cullen’s balls a firm, appraising grip, like he was assessing a stud at market. While his fingers played with the velvety sac, he let his thumb creep up to rub at the reddened rim, stretched wide, around the thick length of metal. Cullen groaned, forehead thudding against his desk, going limp and rocking back into the touch.

“Please,” he begged. “Oh, Maker.”

“Please what, vhenan?”

“Please keep talking.”

“Oh, like that, do we?” Darmud said with a rush of fondness. “And well you should – I don’t believe in giving praise to those who don’t deserve it. You, though – you deserve to hear every good quality you have repeated over and over until all self-doubt is eradicated from your mind forever.”

He twisted the hilt in his hand and forced it deeper, his pace punishing and rough. Cullen sobbed with need, grinding against the leather that girded the grip.

“If I were to try my hand at being a bard, I would write the sauciest of poetry about you. The rose of Honnleath, talk of the taverns… how I could tease you open with my tongue until you writhed and wept, how I could make you beg, and have you spilling from just my fingers. They’d all be picturing some buxom country lass dripping wet between her legs, huge pillowing breasts and gold hair spilling down in ringlets. Maybe they’d even circulate the poems in the barracks, get your subordinates all aching for a poke, and if word should reach your ears, well, what a thought, eh? All the ranks of the Inquisition’s mighty army inadvertently lusting after you.”

Cullen made an incoherent noise of desire and reached for his prick which was hard and red as bloodstone, trapped against the edge of the desk. Darmud swatted his Commander again, this time over the cleft of his arse, the swift, light blow falling fast enough and near enough to the back of his stones that it made the blond choke on a breath of air and leak a pearl of clear fluid from his ruddy tip. The Inquisitor caught it easily enough and brought it to his lips, sucking his fingers lewdly.

“I’m the luckiest person in all the world to see you like this. I’ll never tire of it.”

Darmud dragged the tips of his fingers along the underside of Cullen’s shaft which was swinging free desperately in the air now, aching for some kind of stimulation. He tickled the sensitive spot just under the head and the human whined, a sound high and sustained, violently bucking his hips.

“So responsive… I swear you get more sensitive every time I touch you.”

“It’s – the lyrium. It used to dull most of this.”

Darmud felt a pang of grief for this kind-hearted, ill-used soul, so mistreated by his Order. For all of them, still hooked on the stuff. Misery… to see youth squandered so.

“Do you like being able to feel all this?” the redhead asked, changing things up. He started rotating the sword hilt in a slow grind and let his other hand drift up to tease one of the blond’s small, pink nipples. Cullen groaned, spreading his legs further, his cock leaking steadily now. Every scrape of the pommel against his insides was hitting his prostate, making the muscles in his thighs and back twitch. He wanted more, but more of what? He was already being bombarded by sensation on all fronts. He had nothing to lean in _to,_ overwhelmed as he was, but he was mad for it, slavering, starved. And it was in the throes of it that Darmud stopped entirely, leaving Cullen bereft of the toe-curling, dizzy delirium.

“Cullen, vhenan, you didn’t answer me. Do you like this?”

“Yes,” the Commander panted hoarsely, “yes, damn you!”

“I am glad to hear it. I like it very much, myself, watching you fall to pieces.”

“Don’t you dare stop!” Cullen growled, glaring over his shoulder, eyes burning. “You bloody – _fuck –_ t-tease!”

Darmud pulled the hilt out and slammed it back again, zapping the metal with just a little magic – just enough to make it buzz in place. The vibration made Cullen slap one hand down hard on the desk, biting down on the meat of his arm to muffle a scream.

“So good,” the Inquisitor purred, sliding to his knees. He wondered what they must look like – obscene – Cullen nude and golden, himself fully clothed in formal attire, black velvet, red silk, and pale trousers tented to the point of comedic emphasis, a wet spot on the cloth where evidence of his dripping need was making itself known. He made no move to touch himself; it would only distract him from the pure enjoyment of the spectacle before him, and he was determined not to miss a thing, not a twitch or a cry or a blush of pink. He would memorize this man, map every inch, and carry every thought of him in his heart as he marched into battle.

“Before I knew you, I never thought I was the type to find love. I was always happy enough alone. I see the truth now, clearly – I would lay down my life for you.”

Darmud paused to kiss the back of Cullen’s bollocks, gently, chaste as anything.

“I fight for you, I lead for you. I do it that there will always be mabari for you to pet and food and drink to keep you full and hearth fires to warm you. I fight so that one day, if your god hears your prayers, if mine still exist to hear mine, we’ll grow old and grey and fat together in a little wee cottage in Honnleath. My stouthearted lion – bravest man I ever knew. You deserve to be cared for, for once, you precious, kind-hearted darling. I won’t hear a word of,” and he punctuated this with lick delivered to the spot between balls and hole, “self-deprecation,” _lick,_ “self-slander,” _lick,_ “or otherwise cruel treatment. You,” _lick,_ “are the light of my life.”

Cullen had fallen mostly quiet, save for a soft, muffled sound that, Darmud realized, was weeping. His beautiful, proud prick had flagged a bit, softening between his strong thighs.

“Does it pain you so much, to hear how loved you are?” the elf asked quietly. Cullen sniffed and shook his head.

“It’s… I know you mean it. I know it’s true _to you._ I’m working on accepting it. I am deeply grateful for all this… attention, but I can’t help but think it’s misplaced. I’m sorry.”

Darmud withdrew his spirit blade hilt and set it to the side.

“Turn over, vhenan. Please.”

Cullen obeyed, face slick and red, the sweat on his chest cooling and making him shiver.

“Sorry,” he said again, gesturing at his fading arousal. “I didn’t mean to ruin it.”

“Ruin it? You? Never,” Darmud grinned warmly, eyes feeling sore with the amount of love he was trying to show in them. “Listen to me. You are worthy of everything I would give you and more that I can’t. Corypheus speaks of men-turned-gods, but you’re the only thing of flesh and blood I would worship.”

“Well, and Mythal, if I remember correctly,” Cullen sniffed, managing a chuckle and a strained smile, “Mister ‘I throw myself into the service of ancient elven magicks.’”

“In fairness, I had no idea I was dealing with anything more than myth at the time, _and_ we got a dragon out of it, so I’d wager we did quite well.”

“Reckless,” the Commander admonished sternly, aimlessly petting Darmud’s hair as he spoke. “You tell me I need to accept your kindness while you fling yourself into danger without a care. You can’t expect me to put all my trust in you if you plan on dying at the first opportunity, you know.”

“I know,” Darmud sighed, rubbing Cullen’s spread thighs. “Gods. I’ve had more close calls than I’d care to admit. I’m impulsive – you know that. That’s why I’m the figurehead and I have people like you and Josephine to follow me and patch all the holes I’ve created, blundering along.”

“Well, you’re not as hopeless as all that, but…”

“But I’d be lost without you. Let me thank you? Please?”

To emphasize his meaning, Darmud lowered his head and kissed the blond’s hip bone, dragging his teeth lightly over the skin.

“I’m – uh – nearly soft, now,” Cullen insisted. “You’d have to waste time getting me there.”

“It’s not a waste if I’d sooner do that than _breathe,_ you great humble mess. I’ve got all the time in the world.”

“Oh, go on, then.”

Happily, Darmud relaxed, taking Cullen’s limp organ to the root and simply holding it there. He worked the muscles in his throat and hummed, calm as can be, as the flesh began to rise again, hard and thick and enough to choke him. He clamped down on the instinct to gag and breathed, slow and tempered, through his nose.

Looking up through a fringe of red eyelashes, he saw Cullen’s muscular, flushed chest, saw the sturdy column of his throat, the angles of his jaw, and a look of awe that filled him with pride. Darmud may not have been the handsomest elf that ever lived, nor was he a particularly good close-range combatant, but by the Maker, he could fellate like his life depended on it. It was a hard-earned skill, borne of practice not on some huge host of men but on a few close companions over the lonely years of his life and a wooden phallus he’d had carved, for even as a young man, he had been a shrewd tactician. If he wasn’t handsome and he wasn’t talented, he would be the most diligent, most studied, most skilled at everything from dance to sex. Few would ever give him the chance to prove himself, but those who would would never have anyone better.

What had started as a jealous exercise in bitterness was bearing sweet fruit now. Cullen, with his honest nature and eager submission, looked at him as though witnessing magic for the first time, but with no fear – just wonder. Wide-eyed and breathless, he saw something in the Inquisitor, beyond the pale, freckled face, the too-big ears, the crooked nose. He saw him as he wanted to be seen – as powerful, as decisive. As someone who could have the world at his feet if he wanted, but who chose, instead, to kneel before a farmer’s son from Honnleath and whisper praises against his skin.

“There we are… standing at attention once again.”

Darmud kissed a slow trail down to the base, then backtracked up to the head which was near purple with arousal, now, and awash with translucent fluid weeping from the slit.

“Won’t take long now, I expect, after so much.”

Darmud sucked the head back into his mouth and stuffed three fingers into Cullen’s tired hole. Cullen moaned helplessly and threaded his fingers through Darmud’s hair.

“That’s it, vhenan. Use me how you like.”

“Please, I want your mouth.”

“You have it.”

“Not – not there.”

He was looking away, somehow still embarrassed, even now. Darmud let himself be pushed low, then swapped his face for his fingers, tugging sloppily at the Commander’s prick.

“As you wish.”

He licked the puckered rim before him and plunged his tongue in deep, revelling in the musky taste, sharpened with the perfumed notes of the oil. He would have to thank Dorian for the recommendation as the spices made it warm and tingly on the tongue and, he could only imagine, felt even better on Cullen’s end of things.

“Warn me when you’re going to spill, would you? I have plans for it.”

Cullen made an incoherent noise and tugged hard at Darmud’s hair. Seeing the opportunity at hand, Darmud inched up and parted his lips, sticking out his tongue. He caught one pulse of ejaculate in his open mouth, and the others on his upturned face. He felt arousal stabbing low in his belly, like a twisting dagger, and smiled through it, stroking Cullen’s thighs through the aftershocks.

Cullen sagged back against the desk, exhausted and pliant. When his breathing had evened out a bit, Darmud rose to his feet and leaned over him.

“You had your eyes shut – missed what a mess you made of me.”

Cullen opened his eyes, muzzy and confused in the wake of such a thorough pleasuring and he whined at the sight of his issue spread all over the Inquisitor’s face.

“Maker’s breath…”

“I thought you’d like it. Naughty little thing, you are. Can you climb up to bed, do you think?”

“I’m not sure. My legs feel like lead – I’m not convinced I can lift them.”

“Wait a tick – I’ll just be a minute. I’ve got a handkerchief to get the worst of it off, but if I don’t wash my face I’ll feel untidy all day.”

“But you’re – you’ll cause a scene,” Cullen sputtered, propping himself up on his elbows. Darmud smoothed the front of his formal jacket down over the front of his trousers with limited success. Grimacing, he reached beneath layers of rich fabric and let his prick stand erect against his belly. He tugged his sash down, effectively trapping it there, and let the fabric fall back in place. Sure enough, you couldn’t see a thing.

“The benefits of the excesses of Orlesian tailoring,” he said, stepping towards the door with a wince.

“You’re not going to walk out there like that – you won’t make it three paces before you’re staining your smalls.”

“You underestimate the powers of elven fortitude,” the redhead replied, and slipped out, shutting the door behind him. Cullen slid bonelessly down off the desk and stumbled over to the door, latching it and leaning heavily against the wall, still feeling loose and tingly. A pattern of swift knocks jarred him out of his sensory reverie and he unlocked the door once more, standing well out of view as Darmud darted in and bolted it once more.

“Well?” he asked, grinning.

“Had to use a bit of Winter magic – don’t laugh!”

Cullen laughed, openly and without restraint, and Darmud ultimately joined him.

“You’re lucky you learned that one. I remember you saying something about the needless diversification of spells…?”

“Yes, well. Even I can recognize that there are some things Inferno can’t do for you.”

“Mm. Yeah, you’d singe your bits clean off, wouldn’t you?”

“Hmm, you’re lucky I like you showing a bit of soldierly cheek. Speaking of, climb up that ladder, go on. Be a good boy.”

Cullen snorted, but obeyed regardless. Darmud relished the sight of his muscles working, the taut buttocks and toned thighs and…

“I’ve left a love bite on your rear end,” he realized, surprised and delighted. Cullen turned so swiftly he nearly fell off the ladder.

“You – what? Really?”

“Oh, don’t sound so scandalized – no one will see it. Move – let me up.”

“You have appointments –”

“Sod the appointments.”

 _“I_ have appointments –”

“Sod those and all!”

“ – with Bull and Leliana to discuss –”

“They can wait a day, for goodness sake!”

Darmud pulled himself up through the hatch and tossed himself down hard on the bed.

“My arms. Now.”

Cullen sighed, sinking down beside him with a happy groan.

“See? It’s better, isn’t it? Lying down after.”

“Lying down’s at a premium these days. Oh – that’s nice.”

Darmud shook his head, kneading the muscles of Cullen’s shoulder.

“Hedonist. Roll over and let me at them properly, if you want a rub-down.”

“You’re the one who needs a rub-down. You didn’t even –”

“I can deal with me later. Come on, jelly-legs, over you go. Might as well do this while you’re soft and floppy.”

“The withdrawal – I’ll only tense up again later.”

“All the more reason to make this last. Come on. There’s a good man.”

The elf rubbed his palms together and got to work, diving in with deft, probing thumbs.

“Can we at least send a bird or something? What’re they going to think, if I don’t show up at my meeting?”

“I imagine they’ll think what everyone’s thinking,” Darmud muttered before he could think better of it.

“What’s everyone thinking? Darmud – what’ve you heard?”

It was Darmud’s turn to blush and falter.

“I meant what I said earlier. There’s… talk. That I’m… well. Having you.”

“Having – _having –_ me?”

“On all fours. Over the desk. On the war table, too, probably. I actually meant to talk to you about what we ought to do but – well. I was thinking in that vein and then I saw you and you looked so ripe for the taking, I couldn’t –”

For a moment, Darmud feared the worst – that he’d humiliated his love beyond all repair. Cullen took a moment to respond, simply taking it in, before affecting a stern expression.

“And you didn’t think to tell me before getting a leg over? For shame –”

“I am sorry, I just –”

“Sounds like you’ve been avoiding some punishment of your own!”

The Commander had Darmud flat on his back, air knocked from his lungs, before he could formulate a reply. Cullen grinned down at him, a boyish, mischievous look in his eye that was as cherished as it was rare to see.

“And what would an offense like that merit, Commander, a court martialing?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Cullen rumbled, crowding close, his lips brushing Darmud’s pointed ear tip. “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”


End file.
